


the silent treatment

by Bellelaide



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: Jordan was ignoring him - outright ignoring him.They argued, all the fucking time, in public and in private. It was what they did, it was how they got through things together - they were comfortable acting as a sounding board for one another when things were tense, and nothing either of them said in the heat of the moment was ever held onto - but this, this was different. John felt betrayed, almost - this wasn’t what they did. Ignoring each other wasn’t how they did things.





	the silent treatment

So the Nations League wasn’t coming home. 

 

The final whistle blew on a grueling two hour game and John’s heart sank. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’d been his error that’d cost them the game, and he was mortified, the crushing weight of another semi final defeat resting on his shoulders. There would be memes, there would be a strong media backlash, there would be heaps and heaps of online hate. He’d fucking fumbled the ball at his feet and he’d given them their second goal, handed it to them, ripped the hopes and dreams of a piece of silverwear away from every single man, woman and child in the country. 

 

John let Kyle pull him into a hug, let himself be slapped on the back by Henderson. He shook hands with a Virgil and De Jong and De Ligt and wiped his sweaty hair off his forehead, unable to look up at the traveling fans. The nation had fallen back in love with England football, sure, but it felt like those days were numbered now. John felt like he’d blown all of their hard work single handedly. 

 

He needed to speak to Jordan. Jordan was always brutally honest - he didn’t ever hold back. He’d tell John whether it was his fault or not, straight up. John needed to look into Jordan’s eyes and just... know. Just know how bad this was. He peered through the crowd on the pitch for Jordan’s yellow kit, neck craning this way and that. Jordan was already making his way towards the tunnel, clapping up at the fans and chewing on the spout of his water bottle. 

 

“Jord!” John called, jogging after him. “Jordan!” 

 

Jordan didn’t turn around, and John frowned, reaching out a hand to grab his arm - but Gareth intercepted him, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him around. 

 

“John,” he said, his hand coming to settle on the back of John’s neck in that fatherly way of his. “You doing alright, buddy?”

 

“Uh - I - yeah?” John said uncertainly, looking over Gareth’s shoulder as Jordan disappeared into the stadium. “Not really, I don’t know. I just need to -”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Gareth said, nodding. “We’ll need to have a little chat, alright?”

 

“Yeah. Definitely. Just going to -” 

 

Gareth patted John on the shoulder and stepped out of his way, letting John fall into step beside Ross as they sought the privacy of the tunnel. 

 

“Brutal, that,” Ross said suddenly. 

 

“What was that?”

 

“Said that was brutal.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

John wasn’t sure what people wanted him to say. Did they want him to apologise? He could barely follow a singular train of thought, let alone analyse the game and his performance and the way he felt so that Ross Barkley could find solace. He pushed on ahead, not caring if it was rude, just needing to see the truth reflected on Jordan’s face. He couldn’t bear the thought that he’d let him down on top of everything - Jordan, who didn’t deserve the shit he got playing for Everton. Jordan, who was so nice and normal and down to Earth and didn’t care that John had done this longer than him and earned more than him and was more famous than him. John didn’t like letting him down on the pitch, not ever. 

 

John pushed open the swing door to the dressing room, pointedly not looking at the cameras the media team had stationed outside, and looked around for Jordan. Dier was already sat down on the bench next to John’s space, one arm folded across his chest, the other holding his phone to his ear. He glanced up when John came in and nodded his head in acknowledgement. John opened his mouth to ask if Eric had seen Jordan but Eric cut him off, mouthing ‘Winks is pissed’ and tilting his head towards the phone. 

 

John sighed and sat down next to Eric, bending down to untie his laces with slightly shaking fingers. He breathed in and out deeply, squeezing his eyes closed against the anxiety that was creeping in as the adrenalin of the game began leaving him. The doors banged open and John looked up as Chilwell and Maguire came in, closely followed by Kane and Raz and Rashford, the doors barely getting a second to close again before the rest of the team were filtering in. 

 

John couldn’t look anyone in the eye, so he took his time rolling his socks down his calves, rubbing at the pads of his feet and flexing his toes. Everyone was talking in hushed tones, certainly not celebrating, but not particularly defeated either. They’d all joked about the ridiculousness of the Nations League before the tournament even started - this should’ve been nothing more than a friendly, really. Maguire probably still didn’t even understand what they were playing in. 

 

The doors banged open again and John looked up to see Jordan breezing in, gloves tucked under his arm, somehow already in his sliders. John frowned and watched as he stopped to say something quietly to one of the coaches, willing him to look down at John and give him a smile, an angry grimace, anything. 

 

Jordan began walking over to his area, smiling over at Dele half heartedly. John turned his face up properly, tilting his head a bit by way of greeting - but Jordan didn’t look in his direction, walking straight past and taking out his phone with his back to the room. John frowned and looked at Kyle, who shrugged and went back to wrapping his shin guards up. John got up and walked the couple of paces over to where Jordan was stood, hands on his hips. 

 

“Jord?” Jordan didn’t turn around, and John felt himself grow irritated. “Pickford?”

 

“Alright, lads, listen up,” Gareth shouted suddenly, clapping his hands together for silence. “I know there’s a lot of disappointment in the room, but we have to focus on Saturday now. Third place is still something worth winning, and we owe it to the fans who’ve travelled all this way. There’s going to be a lot of fallout over this, as I’m sure you’re all aware, and we’ll discuss where we went wrong and how we can improve tomorrow as we prepare for Switzerland. For now, get some rest. Stay off social media as far as possible, and keep your heads high. Okay?” 

 

Everyone murmured their agreements. John was still hovering by Jordan’s shoulder, waiting for him to say something, do something - but Jordan just let his eyes roll over John like he wasn’t even there, pulling his shirt over his head. 

 

“Hello? Earth to Pickford?” 

 

Jordan turned around then, but instead of answering John he called over to Declan. “Rice, you got that cream handy?”

 

John watched in disbelief as Jordan caught a jar of Sudocream Declan tossed across the room, uncapping the lid and squeezing some out onto his fingers. 

 

“Are you ignoring me?” 

 

“Cheers, mate,” Jordan said, throwing it back over to Declan. “Lifesaver.” 

 

“What the fuck?” 

 

“John? Hurry up and get changed,” Southgate called. “Bus leaves shortly.” 

 

John looked at Jordan searchingly one last time and dragged himself back to his station, blood pumping loudly in his ears. Jordan was ignoring him - outright ignoring him. 

 

They argued, all the fucking time, in public and in private. It was what they did, it was how they got through things together - they were comfortable acting as a sounding board for one another when things were tense, and nothing either of them said in the heat of the moment was ever held onto - but this, this was different. John felt betrayed, almost - this wasn’t what they did. Ignoring each other wasn’t how they did things. 

 

Jordan was dressed and leaving the changing room before John had the chance to confront him again. John hastily zipped up his hoodie and made to follow him, but was stopped by Gareth. 

 

“John? Hold on a minute, will you? Need to have a word.” 

 

“Can it wait, Gareth?” John said, standing on his tiptoes and craning his neck to see out the door. 

 

“No, we just need to go over a couple of things - just hang back for a second, alright?” 

 

John wanted to protest but Gareth was off again, going to grab some other staff member for their talk. John sighed and sat back down next to Dier, who wasn’t moving out like everyone else, just sitting staring into space. 

 

“You good?” 

 

Eric startled at John’s voice, looking at him like he’d seen a ghost. He smiled tightly and nodded. “Yeah, sorry. Catch you later.” 

 

Then he was alone, and John let his head thump back against the wall. Jordan would lighten up, he told himself. Everything would right itself by morning. 

 

\-- 

 

When John made it down for breakfast, Jordan was nowhere to be seen. 

 

He sat grumpily next to Kyle and Ross, the three of them in the proverbial dog house together. John picked at his breakfast childishly, not having much of an appetite, and listened half heartedly to Kyle and Ross droning on about something boring. 

 

“Either of you spoken to Pickford?” He suddenly interrupted, letting his spoon drop with a bang. 

 

“Er - yeah, chatted to him on the bus last night - why?” 

 

John shook his head and huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “I think he’s ignoring me.” 

 

“He was probably just pissed off last night, you know how he gets,” Kyle said. “He’ll be alright this morning.”

 

“Yeah,” John muttered, but he wasn’t sure. He’d never seen Jordan like that - so calm and level, avoiding John’s eyes like he just wasn’t there. John let his head rest on his hands and sighed, waiting for Ross and Kyle to finish eating so they could go down to the media rooms and be debriefed on yesterday’s game. John was deep in his favourite daydream fantasy of captaining England to World Cup victory when he heard Jordan’s voice. 

 

“Morning Walks, Barks.” 

 

“Alright?” Ross and Kyle replied in tandem, Kyle shooting John a concerned look. 

 

John watched in shock as Jordan kept on walking towards the food, nodding and smiling at everyone else he passed. “Oh my god - did you see that?!” 

 

“Keep it calm,” Kyle said, looking at John sternly. “Don’t give Southgate a reason to punish you, John.” 

 

“I’m fuming, Kyle, who does he - who does he think he is?!” 

 

“Don’t let it get to you,” Ross said, standing up. “Let him be a fucking child, it’s him who has to take the flack for letting in goals anyway.” 

 

John sighed, picked up his tray, and went off to get a seat in the media room - somewhere in the back, so he couldn’t feel everyone’s eyes boring into the back of his head when his stupid mistakes were brought up. 

 

**

 

The debrief was brutal - seeing his fumble from three different angles felt unnecessary. He knew where he’d gone wrong, he wouldn’t be doing it again - and yet Gareth and the team felt the need to replay the damn thing what felt like a hundred different times. 

 

He was grateful to get outside on the pitch, grateful for the opportunity to run until he couldn’t think of anything else anymore. The goalkeepers were off doing something else anyway, and by the time the whole group reconvened John was exhausted and satisfied and happier than he had been that morning. 

 

John picked up a spare bottle of Powerade and carried it over to Jordan as an olive branch, smiling shyly and hoping Jordan felt the same way he did. 

 

“Thirsty, Pickford?” 

 

“Kane! Hold on!” Jordan shouted suddenly, getting up from where he was sat next to Butland and jogging off. 

 

John stared after him furiously and then threw the drink at the ground. As far as he was concerned, Jordan could go fuck himself. 

 

** 

 

They all gathered around a large circular table for lunch. John was a couple of spaces down from Jordan, making a show of not looking at him - two could play at Jordan’s game. John would see how Jordan liked it when the shoe was on the other foot. 

 

Except Jordan didn’t seem to really care. He was having a whale of a time with the others, laughing with the Spurs boys about something that’d happened in the tunnel before one of their Premier League games. 

 

John watched them bantering with a scowl on his face, resenting stupid Eric Dier for the way he was making Jordan’s face crinkle. The boys started talking about Mike Dean, and John sat up straighter, leaning into the conversation. 

 

“Oh I totally fucking agree. He’s like -“ 

 

“Do you remember that one ref from the under 17s, Jordan?” John interrupted suddenly, causing everyone to look at him awkwardly. 

 

Jordan, though, looked straight back at Eric and said “What was that, mate?” 

 

“Fuck this,” John muttered under his breath, ignoring Danny’s awkward attempts to answer his question on Jordan’s behalf and stomping away from the table to go and sulk in private. 

 

** 

 

Afternoon training was brutal. 

 

Jordan wouldn’t pass to John, and John wouldn’t pass to Jordan, and Maguire ended up shouting at them both. Gareth came jogging over and asked what was going on, and both of them muttered nothing, but Maguire was furious - 

 

“They’re behaving like fucking children,” he snapped, pointing between John and Jordan. “They won’t talk to each other.” 

 

“I’ve got no problem whatsoever,” Jordan said, holding up his hands. “I’m passing to whoever I think is best placed.” 

 

“Bullshit -“ 

 

“Right!” Gareth barked. “John, go and swap with Joe.” 

 

“But -“ 

 

“Now!” 

 

John threw one last dirty look at Jordan and dragged his feet off to the other end of the pitch, grumbling under his breath the entire way. 

 

** 

 

John knew he could take no more when, after attempting to jump for a header, he collided with Kyle and went crashing to the ground in an explosion of pain. 

 

He groaned into the grass, hand coming to his forehead. There were people crouching around him, saying his name and trying to roll him. John moved onto his back and squinted up into the light. 

 

“He’s not bleeding,” he heard one of the medics say, shining a light in his eyes. “How you doing, John? You alright?” 

 

“Yeah,” John croaked. “Just need a minute.” 

 

As the pain subsided he allowed himself to scan around for Jordan’s face. There was no way he wouldn’t come over and check in, not when it was a fucking head injury - but the only faces John could see were Kane, and Ross, and Rice. John sat up so fast the world span. The medics put a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him. 

 

Jordan was still in his goal, staring down at his boots. John bit his lip to stop himself from crying or shouting or both and got gingerly to his feet, off to sit out for a while and gather himself together again. 

 

** 

 

When John entered the dining room later that night, the first thing he saw was Jordan and Kyle sat side by side, Jordan touching the bump on Kyle’s forehead tenderly. And that was it, enough was enough. 

 

John marched through the room, stomped up to their table, and slammed his hands down so hard Kyle’s water fell over. 

 

“WILL YOU STOP FUCKING IGNORING ME?!” 

 

The place went silent. Kyle sighed and muttered something but John wasn’t listening, didn’t care. Jordan was looking at him now - finally, at last, his eyes on John’s, though his expression revealed nothing. John’s stomach was doing somersaults, willing Jordan to say something, do something, anything. 

 

Jordan wiped at his mouth with his napkin and stood up, lifting his tray. He placed it down in the cleaning racks and, with his hands in his pockets, walked out of the canteen. 

 

John followed after him. Neither of them said anything as they got in the lift, shoulder to shoulder. John didn’t really know what was happening, couldn’t fathom what was going on in Jordan’s head, but he was vibrating with anticipation. Maybe they’d talk it out, maybe they’d fight, maybe they’d cry, John just didn’t know. 

 

He followed Jordan out of the elevator and down the hall to his room. It was messy inside, so utterly Jordan it hurt. John stood there as the door clicked shut behind them and waited. 

 

“Well?!” 

 

John wasn’t expecting Jordan to turn and look at him with that level of softness - no anger, no fury. Just clear, passive eyes. 

 

“Jordan? Why’ve you -“ 

 

“You were so shit the other night.” 

 

John shuddered. “No I wasn’t. There was no one there to -“ 

 

“Don’t pass the buck.” 

 

“It’s just what happened -“ 

 

“I’m so annoyed at you.” 

 

“So shout at me then, tell me off, but stop fuckin’ ignoring us -“ 

 

“Why do you fucking care, John? What you angling for here?” 

 

“Stop being a fucking baby. Just talk to me!” 

 

“I’m talking to you now.” 

 

“You’re a fucking idiot, Jordan, did you know that?” 

 

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Suck my dick, John.” 

 

John paused. “Yeah?” 

 

Jordan looked at him, face still unreadable, infuriatingly closed off. “What do you mean yeah?” 

 

“I mean, if I suck you off, will you stop ignoring me?” 

 

Jordan grimaced. “That’s disgusting.” 

 

“Fuck you.” 

 

“Why would I want you to blow me?” 

 

John looked at Jordan’s crotch and shrugged. “Cos you’ve had a semi since we were in the lift.” 

 

Jordan sat down on the edge of the bed. “Go on then,” he said, like he was bored. “If you really want to.” 

 

John got between Jordan’s legs and cracked his knuckles. He touched Jordan through his shorts awkwardly, getting his bearings - he couldn’t fuck this up, Jordan would never let him hear the end of it. This wasn’t the first time they’d got each other off - there had been numerous hand jobs when they were teenagers and that thing that they didn’t discuss in Russia last year. But John had never gone down on Jordan before. He had to prove himself. 

 

Jordan pulled his shorts down after a few beats, because John wasn’t making any moves to and he was getting impatient. John wasted no time in getting it into his mouth, grimacing a bit because dicks didn’t taste nice and having something large and intrusive so close to your windpipe was never fun, but he relaxed when Jordan put a hand in his hair and pulled lightly. 

 

“God, you’re so shit at this,” he said, but it was breathy enough that John knew he was just ribbing him. 

 

He worked up a nice rhythm, let his eyes close and just got into it. It was nice, cathartic almost - it felt like atonement for Thursday’s game. John was at his best when he was center of attention and here, like this - that was exactly what he was. 

 

Jordan’s breathing got shallower and shallower the more John worked. Eventually John had to pop off and relax his jaw, gasp for air - he continued wanking Jordan off with his hand, head tilting against Jordan's knee, spare hand wrapping around his ankle and holding on tight. 

 

Jordan kept rubbing at his hair just how John liked, and the whole thing felt really domestic when he forgot about the fact that they were arguing and they weren’t together and their lives would be over if anyone saw them. 

 

“Gonna come,” Jordan said politely. “Fuck. Gonna come soon.” 

 

“Shit,” John croaked as Jordan came all over his hand, dripping down his fingers, onto the floor. 

 

Jordan got up with a sigh and grabbed a towel from the dresser, tossing it at John and stuffing his dick back in his shorts. John stayed where he was, watching Jordan carefully. 

 

“Right then, I’m going back downstairs,” Jordan said. “If we’re all done here.” 

 

“What about me?” 

 

“What about you?” 

 

John closed his eyes and counted to five before he responded. “Don’t I get to come?” 

 

“You reckon you deserve it?” 

 

“Stop being such a cunt!” 

 

Jordan tilted his head to the side and thought for a second. “I’m guessing you can do a press up?” 

 

“What’s that got to -“ 

 

Jordan took the towel out of John’s hands and lay it down flat on the floor. “See if you can get off doing press ups. That’s how you get to come.” 

 

John wasn’t following. “Eh? See if I can - what?” 

 

“Your dick against the towel, back and forward with press ups. That’s how you come.” 

 

“You’re fucking sick,” John muttered, getting to his feet. “I’d rather go and have a wank in my own room, but thanks for nothing -“ 

 

“Then I’m still annoyed at you, and I’m still not speaking to you.” 

 

“Jordan.” 

 

“John.” 

 

John tried to stare him down, tried to assert himself, but he could see it was futile. Cursing under his breath he pulled his training shirt off, throwing it at Jordan who was grinning gleefully. John took off his shorts and his boxers so that he was naked and looked at Jordan one last time, raising his eyebrows. 

 

Jordan’s eyes flickered from John’s erection to his face as he made himself comfortable on the bed. “Go on then.” 

 

“Fucks sake,” John said, getting down and into the push up position. “I hate you.” 

 

“Hurry up.” 

 

John lowered himself slowly, testing. His dick met the towel and there was the slightest drag, the tiniest bit of friction against his head as his foreskin moved against the fibres. He sucked in a breath and turned his head to look at Jordan, who was nodding encouragingly. John raised his body and lowered it again, faster, trying to get some sort of rhythm going. He was torn between chasing the sparks of contact and the burn in his arms after a while, thinking that this was without doubt nothing but a cruel form of torture. 

 

“You’re annoying, like, but this is hot,” Jordan said, his eyes on John’s dick. “Hope you’re as frustrated as I was with you on Thursday.” 

 

“You’re a horrible twat,” John spat out, regretting it once he had because talking made it harder to breathe. 

 

He felt gloriously on display, aware of how his arms and back would be flexing right before Jordan’s eyes. He groaned as he felt those little flashes of pleasure, barely enough, devastatingly meek. 

 

“You enjoying this?” Jordan said. “Wouldn’t surprise me.” 

 

John said nothing, just thought about sucking Jordan’s dick and the feel of the towel and keeping his breathing level. 

 

“I wasn’t even ignoring you at first. I only did it because I could see it was annoying you in the changing room.” 

 

John shot a glance at Jordan, eyes furious, but he had to drop his head again, couldn’t hold it up. 

 

“Pickford -“ 

 

“Hurry up and come, Stonesy, your arms must be hurting now.” 

 

John wanted to cry. “Can’t -“ 

 

“You can. Go on. Come, John. I want you to.” 

 

John sank so low he was planking and worked his hips back and forth. He wasn’t sure if this was allowed, but Jordan wasn’t stopping him, and he chased it furiously, biting down on his forearm and screwing up his face and there, the edge of his release, an underwhelming and pathetic orgasm but an orgasm nonetheless. 

 

John fell onto the towel, panting into his arms. It occurred to him that if he was likely to be playing tomorrow he’d be stiff as fuck and pretty useless. Jordan was leaning over him, patting him on the side, saying something reassuring that John couldn’t follow. He rolled onto his back and looked up at Jordan’s stupid cocky face, sighing. 

 

“That was the worst orgasm I’ve ever had.” 

 

“Good,” Jordan smiled, leaning down and pressing a kiss to John’s forehead. “Be better in future, alright? I get enough shit playing with Everton. I expect better from you.” 

 

John looked up at Jordan, knowing he couldn’t get any more vulnerable than he already was, and said “Was I really that bad?” 

 

Jordan’s eyes softened again and he ruffled John’s hair. “You played really good. That one mistake was just fucking... poor timing from you. Course you weren’t that bad.” 

 

John let his eyes flutter closed as he took in the words he’d been longing to hear. “Thanks, Jord,” he said gently. 

 

“I do remember that ref from the under 17s, by the way. Oh my god, what a fucking nonce.” 

 

John laughed, and the effort of it hurt his exhausted stomach muscles. “Don’t make me laugh, fuck.” 

 

“Honestly though, he was.” Jordan smiled down fondly and then got to his feet. “Right. I’m off to tell everyone you swung for me and missed and we talked and everything’s fine now. Get that fuckin come rag out me room, will you?” 

 

John got to his feet carefully, picked up the towel and walked over to Jordan. He put his hand on the side of his cheek and kissed him once on the mouth, soft and dry and tender. 

 

“Take the towel yourself, you lazy bastard.” 

 

Jordan grinned at him. “God, you’re so fucking annoying, Stonesy.”

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this before jordy did THAT with the pens so. fully expect another stonesford fic from me because that was beautiful and im not over it, nor will i be for some time


End file.
